


Knife, Meet Back

by Adenil



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Incredible Hulk - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Muah, Serious, Testing limits, angry, ranting, tony is an idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 10:45:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1741892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adenil/pseuds/Adenil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce Banner is no idiot. He knows that Tony is testing him, testing the Hulk. But he can handle it. He can keep the Hulk in. Right up until he can't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knife, Meet Back

Bruce Banner was no idiot. In fact, most people would call him a genius, although he wouldn’t go that far. A genius wouldn’t have irradiated himself, after all. But he’d learned a lot since then, and one thing that came from running from the law, the lawless, and SHIELD which was above all that was a certain kind of street smarts. Street smarts that made him pay close attention to his surroundings rather than face a picked pocket, poisoned drink, or a quick knife in his back that was sure to bring out the other guy.

 

So he knew when he was being studied.

 

He knew how he looked. He was a white guy, kind of mealy, skinny, and often putting himself amongst crowds of people who looked differently, spoke differently, and could peg him as a potential hit, an easy target, from a mile away. He just had that air about him, and because he couldn’t exactly _say_ that there was a huge, hulking monster just under the surface, then that was just something he had to put up with.

 

The kind of studying Tony Stark did was of a different sort. Tony didn’t just study, he _tested_.

 

He still felt like he was waiting for that knife in his back, though, and that made him nervous.

 

It had started with a quick jab to his ribs, and Tony hadn’t even tried to hide that one. And when Bruce didn’t react by going green and angry, it had only whetted Tony’s appetite. Made him want to test more, push the limits.

 

If he was honest, he would admit that he didn’t notice it right away. Tony could be subtle when he wanted to be. He would drop things—beakers, usually, or large pieces of sharp metal that sent shockwaves of sound throughout the lab and through his skull—and then look up as an afterthought. He’d mutter sorry, even as his eyes followed Bruce reaching behind a panel and yanking back as the loose wires electrocuted him.

 

He’d place blocks of metal around for Bruce to stub his toes on. He’d hand Bruce the news, front page plastered with the latest fuck-up from the Hulk, his clear eyes watching, waiting, observing. Tony’s elbows would fly wild, he’d have two left feet every time he wore his suit within stomping distance of Bruce’s toes, and always, always he would be smirking and teasing and letting out little barbs that could be friendly, but seemed designed to get beneath Bruce’s skin, to drive him mad. Too bad he already was.

 

He walked in on Tony and Jarvis once, both discussing him. He knew Jarvis could have warned Tony, but maybe the AI wanted him to know. As if he didn’t already. He’d only heard a few snippets of their conversation, something about skin tone and adrenaline readings and heart rates. But then his foot hit the ground and Tony had seamlessly shifted into mocking Jarvis and turned to Bruce, all smiles, wondering if he’d had dinner yet.

 

(And dinner was something that would have been too spicy, if he hadn’t spent so long in India.)

 

It was only a matter of time, then, before Tony pulled out the metaphorical big guns and took his testing to the next level. If he wanted to illicit a response, he was just going to have to try harder. Bruce was fine with that. More than fine. Because even though Tony was annoying and a bit insane, he was a friend. And he didn’t have many of those.

 

So when Tony strolled into the lab one day and something in the air just _tensed_ , Bruce knew he was in for it.

 

Bruce glanced up, his usual half smile, half tearful-rage stretching across his face at the sight of Tony. He started to say hello and realized that he hadn’t said a word all day, and his throat was rough from non-use. He pushed a few data points around on the tablet to hide the cough as he cleared his throat.

 

“Finally escape the board room?” he asked. He concentrated on the tablet, trying to ignore the roiling in his gut and thinking _why can’t I just have normal friends?_ even though he knew the answer to that question.

 

It took him a moment, and he was almost waist deep in another calculation, another discovery, but then he realized that Tony hadn’t actually responded. He was just standing there, off to the side. Looking at him.

 

And wasn’t that just disconcerting? Because Tony never _just_ looked. He searched, or studied, or _examined_ to death until there was nothing left to see. Then he built it up, just so he could look at it again in a new light, with fresh eyes.

 

He took a step back from that gaze, even though Tony was still halfway across the room. He felt the cool press of the metal bench in his back and it was nice. It grounded him. He took a deep breath, and the anger flowed through him, hot and sharp like fire and razors licking through his blood. It felt nice, too.

 

Tony took a step towards him. He tried to take a step back, and the table impeded him. Tony was all hard lines and dark, piercing eyes just _looking_. Looking at him clearly and unabashedly as he walked across the room and stood so close, their chest pressing so near, that Bruce could feel the outline of the arc reactor through their shirts and against his skin.

 

He laughed a little, but it was weak, and just a smidgen of the anger poured out with it and fell to the ground at their feet. “Wh-what are you doing?”

 

“Testing a theory,” Tony said, and then there was no more space between them.

 

Tony’s hand came up and his fingers rushed through Bruce’s hair. His eyes were open, looking, half-lidded as he pressed near and pushed their lips together. Bruce stood stock-still as it happened, his arms hanging at his sides like dead weight even as his muscles spasmed, flexed, begged, shouted to expand and stretch and break free. He felt Tony’s soft lips and the prickle of whiskers on his face as he kissed him.

 

He was held still as Tony kissed him, pressing his luck and exploring Bruce’s mouth with his wicked tongue, so biting and fierce in verbal combat, just as good with non-verbal. He didn’t move, couldn’t move, couldn’t think and it must have gone on forever. Tony testing. Tasting. And just looking at him.

 

 

For a split second, just a second, Bruce lost control, and he was kissing Tony back. His fingers twitched and he leaned in, feeling warmth and joy and the anger flashed out of existence then back stronger, more powerful than before.

 

Tony flew across the room, crashed into the wall, knocked over beakers and tablets and metal with his flailing limbs, and landed in a slump on the far side of the room.

 

Bruce was panting. His fists clenched. His vision was blurring, blurring, but he could still make out the shape of Tony jumping up and the flashes of red as the suit read his bracelets and coalesced around him. Then he was blind, and all he could do was hear the soft _snick_ as the helmet visor slipped over Tony’s face, closing him off to the world, protecting him.

 

He seemed to snap back into himself just as suddenly as he had snapped out, but he could read the situation well enough to know that had had been out of it for a while. He was collapsed on the ground. The floor was dented, tiles bent up in the shape of huge fists—not fully huge, not ridiculously gargantuan, but bigger than a human could ever be. His clothes hung from his body, stretched and pulled and nearly destroyed. The table beside him had been cast aside and lay broken in two, and the tablet he had been working on earlier flickered to life for a second before dying again. Flickered. Died. Flickered. Died. Flickered.

 

He realized Tony was talking to him.

 

“Easy there, Doctor,” he was saying. “Deep breaths. Come back to yourself. You’re still here. With me. We’re in my lab. Everything is fine. You’re safe.”

 

He looked up at Tony kneeling over him and let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. He saw his reflection in Tony’s visor and searched the shape of his own face for some hint, some clue as to what had just happened. He saw gaunt, shallow skin and grey hair and tired, angry eyes.

 

He lurched to his feet and Tony moved with him, smoothly. Bruce clutched at the remnants of his clothes and stared at his reflection. He nearly jumped out of his skin as the visor flipped up and Tony looked out at him, and the searching eyes returned. Searching, searching for the same hint Bruce wished he could see. Bruce found himself searching Tony back, wondering what could possibly be running through the other man’s head. What he was feeling. What he was thinking. If he was even thinking at all.

 

But Tony’s face was an impassible rock wall, guarded, drawn, closed off. As much of a protection against the world as his visor had been.

 

Then Tony smirked.

 

“Well, I know I’m pretty good but I didn’t realize that’s all it took to get the big guy out to play.”

 

Disgusted, Bruce pushed past him. His pants nearly fell to the floor and his shirt hung off his shoulders and he just felt naked, exposed, like so much a raw nerve of bundled, angry energy itching to get out and leaking around the edges. Weak.

 

Tony called after him and he ignored him. He marched his way to the elevator and stood waiting, hoping against hope that Jarvis wasn’t about to pull some AI trick and stall the elevator just to get the two of them talking.

 

The elevator doors opened. He took a step in. Tony’s hand, clad in creaking metal, wrapped around his arm and stopped him. He held still for a moment, half in and half out of the elevator, staring at the wall, and feeling the crush of metal against his mortal, human flesh.

 

“Bruce,” Tony said, and his voice was sure and stable and all the things Bruce wished he didn’t need right now. “Bruce,” he said again, and Bruce realized that even Tony didn’t know what to say, and he felt like the floor was dropping out beneath him. “What did you think about that?”

 

Bruce turned, slowly, measuring the movement of his legs and arms and keeping track of everything, every inch of himself, in a desperate attempt to dissuade another slip up.

 

“What do I think?” he repeated. The words tumbled out of his mouth unabashed and just as angry as every other word he had ever said. “What.” He laughed. He pulled his arm away from Tony. “What kind of question is that?”

 

Tony brushed his hand over his helmet, metal scraping against metal, like any normal person would run their hands through their hair. But Tony was never normal. “A pretty reasonable one,” he said conversationally, as if they were discussing their latest energy project over tea and coffee. “What do you think about being kissed by Earth’s most eligible bachelor?”

 

Bruce took a step backwards into the elevator. His eyes were locked to Tony’s but he wasn’t seeing, wasn’t feeling. Just acting and reacting and facing each microcosm of anger head on. “I think I need to change my clothes,” he said, then, “Jarvis, if you please.”

 

The doors slid shut and Tony was trapped on the other side of them, even as Bruce was trapped within. He collapsed against the wall and felt the hard metal against his back, poking through in places to touch skin where his shirt had torn asunder. He clutched at the hem of his pants and ran his thumb over the smooth threads, feeling them, concentrating on them, experiencing them deeply and fully until the doors slid back open and he walked into his little room, his little corner of Stark Tower and got dressed.

 

And he took the new piece of anger that threatened to bloom inside him, blossoming as it was from the steel knife in his back, and he made it a part of himself. It was easier, then, to be angry. Always angry. Easier than ever before. And nice, in its own, cruel way.

 

*****

 

Tony Stark was a fucking idiot. And, yeah, he knew it, knew it like he knew the back of his hand or the inside of the Iron Man suit, thank you, and no Jarvis did not need to remind him quite so often. He was an idiot. He knew it. SHIELD knew it. The world knew it. Hell, _aliens_ from _space_ knew it. He was smart, but he was also an idiot.

 

But he still managed to shock himself with just how idiotic he could be sometimes.

 

He’d done a lot of dumb things to himself, of course. That was second nature. Blasting into walls came just as easily as stabbing himself with stray pencils and forgetting to sleep. It was easy to hurt himself, because he never complained. No sir. Never pointed it out, never questioned, never wondered why anyone would ever be so idiotic as to hurt themselves so much. It had been so ingrained, so much a part of him, that he could never stop. Never wanted to stop, because then he might lose his creative spark, that drive, because as long as he was hurting himself he could still be hurt, could still discover and learn and grow and become.

 

It was when he hurt others that he realized he was a fucking idiot. A massive, ridiculous, yet magnanimous idiot accepting all the idiocy in the world so that others needn’t suffer. He was a philanthropist of idiocy.

 

Each act was a shock. When he’d ignored Pepper in favor of flying blind into danger and she had walked away, it had been a shock. When he’d starved himself of sleep and food and saw that little sad look in the eyes of Steve Rogers, it had been a shock. When he’d tested too far and too fast and saw the eye roll as Clint handed him a destroyed bow, it had been a shock. When his mother had cried real tears, it had been a shock. And now, when he pictured Bruce bent and desperate, it was a shock.

 

He always forgot that he was capable of hurting others. It just happened. Bled out of him as a natural extension of his own ability to hurt himself. He was so dumb, so stupid, and so goddamned smart that it was a painful combination that could leak out of him at all angles and fell friend and foe alike in his wake.

 

And of course, he never meant to do it.

 

It had started innocently enough. A quick jab to the ribs, and that one had meant something. That had been a genuine test of Bruce’s too-tight grip on his own roaring emotions. If the Hulk was going to come out that easily, he needed to know. Needed to be able to prepare. But he hadn’t. Bruce had been almost, but not quite, amused by his little test. And that intrigued Tony.

 

It grew and developed and at some point Tony realized that he wasn’t really playing the scientist anymore. Instead, he was playing the little boy pulling the pigtails of the girl he liked. That in some parallel universe he was reaching over his desk and tugging Bruce’s grey hairs out and laughing as he was ignored. Wanting a reaction, but never getting.

 

One day Jarvis asked him what he planned to do with all this data, and Tony had said something about science and the betterment of mankind but really he meant _nothing_ and _I don’t know_.

 

So he thought about it.

 

And it took a while.

 

But eventually he realized he knew what he actually wanted to be doing.

 

Being a huge, gigantic, ignoramus he of course screwed it up and wound up with only the memory of sweet pressure on his lips and the faint twinge of a bruised rib to show for his trouble.

 

As the suit dismantled around him, he thought about it. He turned the new data over in his mind, almost absently inquiring for Jarvis’ own thoughts on the matter. And Jarvis might have been a little huffy with him, but his thoughts were important, dammit, and he certainly couldn’t ask Bruce for advice right then. He examined each tiny bit of data, tore it up, ripped it apart, ignored the hurt of the memory of kissing and soft hair in his hands and he just stood there for a long moment and thought about it. Thought about kissing Bruce. Wondered where he went wrong.

 

Then he realized he was an idiot.

 

*****

 

“It didn’t happen until you kissed me back.”

 

Bruce cracked open one eye and took a deep, steadying breath. He was positioned on the floor, gangly limbs drawn close as he tried to meditate just enough to get ahold of himself. Enough that, when he left, he wouldn’t change spontaneously. He watched Tony pacing around the entrance to his room and felt that hot bloom of anger in his back.

 

He shifted. “I asked Jarvis to lock the door.”

 

“I asked him to _un_ lock it,” Tony said, and again it was like they were just having a conversation. This was just a normal day. A normal problem for Tony to solve. Something for him to build up, something for him to destroy. “Jarvis is brilliant—I mean, I built him, of course he’s brilliant. But he isn’t good enough to figure out a scientific question like this.”

 

Suddenly, Tony was kneeling before him all bright eyes and desperate breaths. Bruce wondered if he’d run the whole way, or if he was just too excited about the prospect of a new discovery.

 

“For that I need you,” Tony said simply and Bruce nearly slipped, nearly let the big guy out in a rush of stretching, tearing muscle and screaming.

 

Instead, he glanced down. He saw that Tony was still wearing the bracelets, and he felt a little better. But not much.

 

“I need to collect myself,” Bruce said. And it was true.

 

“I’m sure you do,” Tony said.

 

In a flash he was rolling forward and Bruce felt his hands on his arms, gripping him tightly, insistently. Tony was spilling into his lap, yanking him close and Bruce reached out, out, and shoved him away and it was him, just him, just Bruce pushing away and not the other guy. He tried to remember that as he pushed him away, watching in slow motion as Tony lost his balance and fell a few inches to the ground with a thump.

 

Bruce struggled to breathe as he stared at Tony. It was just him, only him, and no one else. He tried to believe it. But he could never know for certain.

 

And Tony was smiling up at him.

 

“Hey,” Tony said, his voice flippant. “It’s okay. You didn’t change.”

 

Bruce stared at him. He saw Tony breathing slowly, normally, and it made his heart clench, the anger in him painfully trying to recoil from the good feeling that breathing instilled in him. “No,” he said, and it was like another person was saying it, and that scared him. “I didn’t.” He shrugged and smiled back, but it felt cold and empty on his face. “It doesn’t matter. Just give me a minute and I’ll come back downstairs, all right?”

 

Tony was nodding along with his words, and he honestly seemed to be considering them. Bruce watched as Tony got to his knees again before him, sitting back on his heels and staring at Bruce with an absent sort of intensity. The kind Tony never knew he could wield.

 

“I’m going to try again,” Tony said, and he leaned forward without another word.

 

Bruce felt a burst of fear, dull like a bat to the head, smash through his anger and he imagined all the terrible things that could happen if he didn’t run. Run right then. Escape. Save Tony.

 

He turned his head and Tony’s mouth bumped awkwardly into his cheek. He felt that same prickle of whiskers and closed his eyes. He tried not to think about it. He listened as Tony pulled back, registering the rustle of his clothes, the huff of his breath in annoyance.

 

“How’s your theory?” he asked, still turned away, eyes still closed. “Is this the prototype phase? Is that what this is?”

 

Silence stretched for a long moment. Bruce felt his control restoring itself gently, anger wrapping him in a warm cocoon of needles. Finally, he opened his eyes. He turned. He looked at Tony, who was looking back. Just looking, again, and that was dangerous.

 

“Bruce,” he said, and Bruce almost just stood up, just walked out. Out the door or out the window, he wasn’t sure. But he sat, still and silent, as Tony spoke at him.

 

“I am a huge idiot.” Tony laughed. “Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m pretty much the smartest person on the planet right now. Let’s not even argue about that. If you wanted something engineered, you come to me. Nine out of ten kidnappers can’t be wrong. But also, I’m stupid.” He glanced around, tracing his eyes over the walls as he talked and Bruce wondered if he was planning upgrades and calculations in his head. “You only started to change when you kissed me back. Why?”

 

“Because it made me angry.” He scoffed. Twitched. Laughed. “That’s why I change, Stark.”

 

Tony was nodding, gears in his head turning rapidly. Bruce could see the fire of energy and genius across his face, reflected in his eyes, the only window into his powerful mind. “Yes,” Tony said. “Okay, that’s good, I can work with that. So you’re, what, homophobic? You hate gay people? They make you angry?” He stood up and paced around as he spoke and Bruce just sat there, watched him. “I mean, I didn’t peg you for someone who would hate being gay so much that you’d want to kill a guy, but who knows?”

 

“Tony.” Bruce breathed. In, and out. The anger flowed through his veins, sharp and deadly, soft and comforting. “I’m not homophobic.” He kept the anger close desperately.

 

He watched Tony turn to look at him, his eye brow arching, a sardonic grin stretching across his face. “What’s your theory then, Doctor?”

 

Bruce shivered. He stood up. He took Tony by the arm and started to lead him from the room. Started to remove the distraction. “I don’t want you experimenting on me anymore,” he said, and he gently, oh so gently, lead Tony toward the door and ignored the voice screaming in his head to shove him, throw him, toss him away like garbage. Because that would unleash the other guy and he could never, never wanted to hurt Tony.

 

“That’s what you think that was?” Tony jerked his arm away and didn’t seem to notice as Bruce’s temper flared up, then died away to its normal, soothing simmer. “I’ve kissed a lot of people for a lot of reasons, but I haven’t done it as an experiment since I was nine.”

 

A laugh bubbled out of him, thick and full of vitriol and violence. “I’m trying to remove myself from a potentially dangerous situation right now, Tony. You need to go.”

 

Tony rolled his eyes, and wasn’t that just peachy? He reached forward and took Bruce’s arm, his fingers warm and flexing and real—not at all like the feel of metal and strength and protection. Bruce wished Tony would just put on the suit. Then he would feel safer. He closed his eyes for just a moment, one long blink, and reminded himself that Tony was still alive. He hadn’t killed him, yet.

 

“I’m an idiot, and so are you,” Tony murmured, half to himself. “You don’t have to be so damn angry all the time.” He glanced at Bruce, then away, examining the door frame with bright, critical eyes. “So I made you angry. Whatever. Sorry. But that wasn’t part of the experiment. Not, not really.” His fingers tightened around Bruce’s arm, almost imperceptivity, but Bruce was hyper aware of the touch, aware of the danger, aware that Tony could hurt him like no other.

 

“I want to kiss you again, Bruce. All right?”

 

Bruce just stared at him, because what else could he do? He could feel the knife in his back twisting, shoving itself deeper and deeper and it was barbed. Holding on. And if he ever tried to remove it he might bleed to death, right there on the floor until the big guy was all he had left to save himself and was too weak to fight any more.

 

Minutes stretched and for once Tony was silent, just watching, just waiting, not needing to say anything else because he’d already made his request. And Bruce took a deep breath.

 

And he nodded.

 

Tony leaned in. Slower this time, more measured, giving Bruce a chance to pull away or push away or run and jump out the window consequences be damned. Tony leaned into him and his hand slid up his arm, cradled the back of his head, just resting there, not holding him or forcing him or demanding he do anything but exist and feel.

 

Their lips touched gently, and Bruce felt what he had not noticed the first time. It thrummed through him, the knowledge that Tony was searching—but for a response of a different sort. Not to draw out the other guy, but to ignore him, because sometimes Bruce was just Bruce, and right then he knew that was all Tony was after.

 

He stood there, limply, as Tony kissed him. He could hardly move, hardly think, and his body still hummed with that nervous energy, that underlying knowledge that the other guy was there, waiting, wishing to get out.

 

Then Tony closed his eyes, and Bruce felt the brush of cool metal from his bracelets against his cheek.

 

Bruce reached out and wrapped his arms around Tony’s waist, crushing their bodies together feverishly. He heard himself groan and Tony yelp as he pulled him close, so close, closer than close and kissed back hard and angry. Always angry, because he could never let it slip again. But he could have other things with the anger, mixing with it, melding with it, and the taste of Tony’s mouth opening to his and the sounds Tony made were a perfect combination with that anger. A perfect stone to dull the edge of that anger, warm water to drive back the fire.

 

He was completely aware of what was happening. He didn’t slip for even a second as he held Tony close to his body, protecting him from himself. He was kissing hard and fast, yanking back between presses to gather deep breaths and watch the way Tony was gasping for air, one arm around his neck and the other limp at his side. He ran his own hands over Tony’s back, feeling the pull of muscle and taut skin and reminded himself that Tony wasn’t just alive, but that he could take care of himself. That he could withstand absurd g-forces and impalement and a god-damn nuclear explosion and make it out to the other side joking and laughing and still living.

 

He yanked back a few moments later and Tony very nearly swooned in his arms as he struggled to breathe, and that really _was_ peachy. He felt Tony’s hand in his hair, carding through strands, comforting, and watched as Tony opened his eyes and smiled faintly up at him.

 

“Okay,” Tony said. Bruce tightened his grip; his grip on himself, his grip on Tony. “So Earth’s most eligible bachelor just got schooled, hard core.” He studied Bruce pleasantly, still smiling, still running clever fingers through his hair. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ve got a little green going on in the eye area.”

 

Bruce dropped him and pulled back, watching Tony stumble. “Sorry,” he said, reminding himself that everything was okay and Tony didn’t hate him and that Tony didn’t mean to do all these hurtful things. “Sorry.”

 

“Okay,” Tony said with a shrug, and he was pushing his way back into Bruce’s arms and wrapping him up in a hug. “Yeah, it’s okay. It’s fine, really.” He nuzzled his way up and placed a scratchy kiss on Bruce’s jaw line. “Perfectly fine. More than fine. Stark-raving fine. Just promise me one thing.”

 

Bruce looked at him, really looked, and found he couldn’t speak for fear of letting down the dam that held him back and spilling forth into the world all that uncontrollable anger and violence that just simmered beneath the surface. He just nodded. Once, then again. Nodded, because he would promise Tony anything to keep him safe.

 

“That you won’t stop kissing me like that.”

 

Bruce leaned in. Tony met him in the middle.

 

And they kissed.


End file.
